


Romance for the Unloved

by iateyourheart



Category: Glee
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iateyourheart/pseuds/iateyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than anything in the world, Kurt just wants to be wanted. Goes AU within 2x12 "Silly Love Songs".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance for the Unloved

It starts because Kurt believes there's something deeply wrong with him.

He’s not exactly sure what that something is, but he’s got a couple theories floating around in his head.

Number One: A great grand relative of his pissed off a witch once upon a time ago, and all of the Hummel men were cursed with dog faces and the inability to see the horror of their looks. Every mirror he’s ever looked into is a magicked lie.

Number Two: He is wholly unlovable to anyone he wishes to be loved by.

Since Mercedes had been so starry-eyed over him and Brittany rather fond of kissing him, ‘Hummel the Dog-Faced Boy’ was ruled out.

Right now, Finn’s lips are probably hanging by their hinges due to his adventures in being a kiss slut. Somewhere Blaine’s sulking into a low-fat caramel macchiato over a boy with bad hair and no job, and since Kurt is spending his Valentine’s Day sitting in _Steak and Shake_ sending creamy vanilla straight to his thighs instead of being fawned over by either the former or current object of his affection theory number two has to be the winner.

He’s like the goddamn Bat Signal for the unwanted and it sucks being a beacon of “forever alone” when more than anything in this world, you just want to _be_ wanted. And maybe this is the reason why the usual combination of crippling fear and douche chills is absent when he spots Dave Karofsky walking through the door.

Their eyes connect. Karofsky has the gall to wear an expression of wide-eyed shock and nerves that transforms him from overgrown ape to little boy, and Kurt wants to launch his milkshake glass straight for that fat head.

It’s a shame, really, that Kurt’s throwing arm is total shit.

Karofsky plops down into a booth in his peripheral view, and Kurt keeps focus on the milkshake. _Two of Hearts_ pumps out over the restaurant’s speakers – he blows vanilla bubbles in time to the beat and curses his existence.

“Um, the guy over there asked me to give you this.”

The waitress wears a thin smile as she places a napkin on the tabletop.

Kurt thinks, before he can even bother with dragging his gaze away from white sludge, that this is what he has to look forward to for the rest of his life. That the pangs of love for Kurt Hummel will only stir in closet cases with propensities for violence and ketchup stains on their poly-cotton blend T-shirts. Want for Kurt Hummel will only come by way of the Wal-Mart of potential boyfriends.

_Thanks for not saying anything. I’m sorry or whatever_.

Phil Collins is now on the mix tape, and he cannot bear Sussudio soundtracking his misery so Kurt puts his money on top of the check and as he leaves, makes sure to give Karofsky a view of his middle finger.

“Hey!”

He is midway across the parking lot and Karofsky’s legs are making long, hurried strides in order to catch up to him. He could run, he probably should, but the flight response is totally gone just like the douche chills; Kurt waits patiently with his arms folded and his foot tapping, and anger boiling in his guts because he will never be anything other than a dipshit magnet.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Karofsky is roaring and red-faced, his barrel chest heaving.

Kurt tilts his head, plays it cool. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem! I try to apologize and you flip me off!”

The anger makes its way from his guts to his extremities – Kurt’s hands ball into fists, Kurt’s teeth set on edge, Kurt’s feet put him in a dangerous space mere inches from Karofsky. “Oh, is that what you were doing? Sorry or whatever for throwing slushie in your eyes. Sorry or whatever for leaving you with bruises everyday. Sorry or whatever for scaring the hell out of you. Sorry or whatever for being incapable of dealing with my personal garbage and taking it out on you. Well you know what, Brain Trust apology not _fucking_ accepted.”

“I’m not good at…” Karofsky starts but lets rage do the talking instead, “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

It’s kinda funny the way Kurt’s body jerks forward as if ‘wispy’ and ‘slight’ weren’t perfect adjectives to describe it. As per the meathead order of things, Kurt expects Karofsky to posture back – and he does – but he’s slow on the uptake and this time Kurt is not caught off guard.

Hummel the Dog-Faced Boy has just inspired awe, ardor, and adoration all in one five second tick of the face.

It’s the wrong guy, the wrong _everything_. Kurt would have melted if Blaine had serenaded him, and this night would have ended in candles, rose petals, and whispered declarations of love while Kings of Leon supplied the background noise. Instead he gets fryolator smell, Phil Collins, and fucking Karofsky and his fucking facial ticks and ketchup stains.

Once, just once, Kurt Hummel wants to know what it’s like to wield the power of the “wanted”. His fists unclench, the fingers twist themselves on either side of that open letterman, the arms give a hard yank, the lips crash together with the force of a fist and part slightly, their movement frenzied while teeth pull and nip.

 

xx

“I came on way too strong, didn’t I?”

Valentine’s Day was a week ago, but Blaine refuses to shut up about his failed attempt at wooing.

Kurt is stretched lazily across the couch in the common room of Blaine’s dorm trying to concentrate on Katharine Hepburn being flawless and yar. This is the tenth time they’ve had this very conversation, but it feels like the millionth.

“I thought you were perfect,” he mumbles.

Kurt wishes he were yar. He wishes the evidence of Karofsky’s want all over him was visible to the naked eye because he would rub this newfound ability to make someone pine in Blaine’s face. He’d really go for a spectacle – the Warblers singing backup while he tells Blaine, “see someone thinks I’m the moon and the stars, I’m not hopeless”.

There has to be a Taylor Swift song perfect for that.

“Maybe I should call him. Or send him an ‘I’m sorry I’m such a dickhead’ fruit basket. Offer to pay his rent for a month?”

On TV, Tracy Lord is being carried by Mike Conner. On the loveseat, Blaine is being eaten up by desperation. Kurt cuts his eyes and tosses a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Fruit basket. Definitely.”

xx

Finn left his phone downstairs. Kurt has to scroll three times to find the number.

“ _8:00. WMHS parking lot_.”

He gets a reply in fifteen minutes.

“ _Find another butt buddy, Hudson_.”

“ _This is Hummel_.”

He gets a reply in ten seconds.

“ _Oh. Okay._ ” 

 

It’s not a date. There’s no way in hell a sane person would expect a parking space between the autoshop building and the Freshman greenhouse to espouse romance, but Dave Karofsky showed up in a polo with his jeans neatly pressed. He’s wearing goddamn Drakkar Noir.

“Unrealistic expectations” and “god awful taste in cologne” are new entries on the list of things Kurt hates about this boy.

In the cab of Karofsky’s truck, Kurt sits awkwardly pressed against him with his lips sucking hard at Karofsky’s neck. There isn’t an ounce of desire to be delicate and discrete – there will be visible evidence of what Dave can’t help wanting across his skin, Kurt’s making sure.

Fingertips drift to a button fly. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Kurt feels godlike.

“Kurr—Hummel, what are you…?”

Those fingertips pop the buttons (one…two…three), slip past the waistband of Hanes boxer briefs.

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking.”

xx

Kurt’s begun to notice that whenever he touches him or looks as if he’s about to touch him, or acknowledges his presence in a general way that Karofsky gets this look on his face. Like he’s seen angels descend from heaven or something and it makes Kurt squirm.

“Are you hungry ‘cuz I would be down with getting something to eat, if you are. I mean, we don’t have to…I just thought you might feel like doing something different tonight.”

They’re parked behind the science building tonight, and all Kurt had wanted was those lips and the power that came with making Karofsky come with his hand, but Karofsky’s got that look on his face. Like Kurt is his Christmas morning.

“…I’m not very hungry,” Kurt says because it’s the wrong guy, the wrong everything.

 

xx

 

“ _Sorry about the napkin. I’m not really good at feelings and shit, but I meant it. The ‘sorry’ part, not the ‘whatever’ part_.”

“ _Wat_?”

“ _This is for your brother, Hudson. Goddamn_.”

“You’re talking to Karofsky now?”

Finn’s got his perturbed face going, which is to say he looks a bit constipated and a lot confused as he hovers over Kurt with his cell phone shoved in his stepbrother’s face.

Kurt blinks and snatches the phone away. “We don’t really talk that much.”

“And do you think this is a good idea? You guys talking and not talking?”

“No, I think it’s a terrible idea.”

Kurt stares at the text conversation screen for what feels like a lifetime before he picks up his own phone and taps out a message.

“ _For future reference this is my number_.” 

xx

He and Dave end up talking for five hours. It was another Saturday night in front of TCM for Kurt and apparently for Dave as well because a text reading, “ _Planet of the Apes is on – please tell me you love this movie_ ” showed up on Kurt’s phone.

_Planet of the Apes_ turned into _Cool Hand Luke_ since Dave’d never seen it and Kurt worships at the altar of Newman, then looking at his phone every minute just became inconvenient so Kurt tapped the dial icon next to Dave’s number.

“I think we should get dinner sometime.” Dave’s voice booms out of speaker.

Kurt hesitates before he answers. “No” was on the tip of his tongue but then he went and thought about ironed jeans, Drakkar Noir, and Christmas morning.

“Kurt, you still there?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says as he shuts his TV off. “Maybe we should.”

xx

There’s a huge box of conversation hearts sitting underneath a wedding cake topper in his mailbox.

Kurt’s kind of over the idea of being serenaded anyway.


End file.
